


A Sire's Revenge

by jstabe



Category: Jossverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-01-08
Updated: 2005-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-29 19:40:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/323427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jstabe/pseuds/jstabe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"You put your hands on something that didn’t belong to you.  Someone that belongs to me."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sire's Revenge

He sits quietly on his cot, naked and shivering despite the warmth of the room. He’s always so cold now, can’t ever seem to get warm. His knees are drawn up to his chest, chin resting on them, thin arms wrapped around his legs in the semblance of a hug. It’s the only comforting touch he has now. His once muscular frame is now skeletal, the rations he’s allowed barely enough to keep him alive and nowhere near enough to keep him strong. His skin, once a beautiful sun-kissed brown is now sallow from poor nutrition and lack of sunlight. His hair is lank and dull, clean like the rest of him, but far from healthy.

His room is small and sparse, containing nothing but the cot, a chair, a sink, and a toilet. No TV, no pictures, no books, no windows because he is undeserving of even the smallest pleasures. This one room has been his world for who knows how long now. He leaves it only to shower and that only because his captor abhors filth.

He can no longer remember much about his time before, when he was free. He gets flashes sometimes, of another life, but that life is so far removed from this reality that he wonders if he’s dreaming. He thinks he was happy; he’s pretty sure he had friends, a family, people who cared about him.

He remembers a pretty blonde slip of a girl with bright green eyes and a sad smile, but he can’t remember why she might be important. He remembers being one of a group of men- no, not a group, a family. A family that lived together, fought together, and tried to keep people safe. He remembers one man with a deep laugh and an infectious grin. Remembers being closer to him than to anyone, more brother than friend.

He hears the lock click and the door starts to slide open. He scrambles off the cot and kneels on the floor, head down, hands behind his back the way he’s been taught. His captor is silent for a long time and he trembles with the need to look up, forcing himself not to because it’ll earn him extra punishment. Finally his captor speaks, that low silky-smooth voice making his belly clench in terror.

“Hello, thing. Comfortable today?” Soft mocking laughter is evident in the tone.

“Yes, Master Angelus, thank you for asking.” Well rehearsed responses learned to keep his captor happy.

Angel smiles as he watches the thing kneeling on the floor. It’s been an incredible six months, but their time together is drawing to a close. He feels almost sad about that; this one has been the most fun by far. He crosses the room and settles comfortably in the chair.

“Come here, thing.”

He watches as the thing scrambles forward to kneel at his feet. His eyes take in the once proud form, now slumped and defeated. Bruises mar much of the pretty skin, ranging from the raw red of a fresh mark to the yellowish brown of healing tissue, and he enjoys looking at them. It’s not the breaking of flesh and bone that gives him his sense of accomplishment, though. It’s the breaking of the mind, of the spirit, that fills him with a deep sense of satisfaction. He hasn’t lost his touch.

“Look at me,” Angel says.

The thing’s head swings up in immediate compliance at the low commanding tone. Angel searches the pale face and lifeless eyes for any signs of the person that used to inhabit the body before him. Finding none, he smiles gently.

“Tell me why you’re here.”

“I touched someone that belonged to you, Master Angelus.”

“What are you?”

“Nothing.”

“What do you deserve, thing?”

“I deserve whatever you choose to give, Master.”

The words are mechanical, spoken by rote. They no longer mean anything because he can’t remember what he did to anger this man so. He only knows that he did do it; Master has assured him of this, repeatedly.

The tone more than anything else tells Angel that he has accomplished what he set out to do. This will be his last night here.

Mind drifting, he recalls bits and pieces of the months that have brought them to this point.

* * *

Angel sits quietly in his chair, waiting for his prisoner to wake. Loves seeing the confusion in the pretty eyes when they open and take in their surroundings. Sees the shock when the man realizes that he’s naked and chained.

“What the hell is going on?”

Slow smile. “We’re going to get better acquainted, you and I. We have so much to talk about.”

“What could we possibly have to talk about?’

“We have a problem here, thing. You see, you’ve done something that really bothers me. You put your hands on something that didn’t belong to you. Someone that belongs to me.”

“I don’t…”

“You put your hands on my childe.”

“A child? I would _never_ hurt a child. You’re crazy.”

Flash to game face and the prisoner goes cold all over. The demon leaves the chair and comes to sit on the bed, disturbingly close.

“You put your hands on my childe. Cut open his head and put metal and wires in him. You took my beautiful, precious, wild childe and castrated him. Maybe I should return the favor?”

Sharp scent of terror and the demon breathes deep. Delicious. Flash back to human guise and Angel watches his prisoner.

“Don’t worry, thing, I’m not going to do that. At least not yet. The blood loss would probably kill you and hey! Wouldn’t want this to be over too soon. You messed with my boy and I think it’s way past time that you were taught a lesson.”

Lightning fast move and the prisoner finds himself face down on the bed. Sound of a zipper and then white hot agony as something huge and hard rams into his backside. He’s biting back screams as Angel pounds into him relentlessly. The rape is bad, but it isn’t the worst. As the thing will come to learn in the coming months, it’s not the rapes or the beatings that will get to you. It’s the voice. That silky smooth voice that never stops whispering in his ear, never stops reminding him that he’s worthless, expendable, that no one cares, that no one is coming. That he deserves everything that he gets and more.

And as the months drag on, days of beatings and rapes and _talking_ , he comes to believe that his captor is right. He deserves this and more. Because if he didn’t, then his family wouldn’t have abandoned him to this Hell.

* * *

Angel lazily strokes himself through the leather of his pants, smiling at the shocked eyes of his thing.

“Come now, thing, you can’t be surprised. Not by this, not anymore. You’ve been bending over for me for months. Now be a good little thing and get ready for your Master.”

Angel watches as the thing that used to be Graham Miller scrambles over to the bed and bends over it, hands clasped behind his back, legs spread wide. Angel stares at the erotic picture for a minute, almost sorry that he has to kill him. The man really is pretty. And that ass? Sweet. He leaves his chair, unzipping as he crosses the room. He kneels behind the prone body and with one hard shove buries himself to the hilt. He puts one hand on the thing’s neck and wraps the other around the clasped wrists on the small of the thing’s back.

Hard slamming thrusts that pound him into the bed and the thing can’t catch his breath. He wants to plead, but knows it won’t do any good. All he can do is ride out the pain and hope he can still walk when this is over.

Angel slams into the pliant body beneath him, smelling blood and fear and pain, his demon roaring inside him. Three more vicious thrusts and he’s coming. As he feels his orgasm start, Angel wraps an arm around the ex-soldier’s neck and yanks him up. Gameface and Angel buries his fangs into the soft throat. He drinks, great gulping mouthfuls of sweet blood that make him come harder. He can hear the rapid heartbeat getting slower…slower…slower…full stop.

Angel slides his fangs from the ruined throat and lets his spent cock slip from the thing’s ass. He stands, casually brushing off the knees of his slacks. He goes to the sink and cleans himself up. He looks up at the mirror and smiles at his non-existent reflection.

“One left.”


End file.
